Girlfriends on Demand

Girlfriends on

Demand

MICKEY J. CORRIGAN

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Girlfriends on Demand

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

Second Edition 2021

formerly Sugar Babies

eISBN: 978-1-77155-346-9

Copyright © 2021 Mickey J. Corrigan All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

www.champagnebooks.com

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Other Books by Mickey J. Corrigan

Dream Job

Me Go Mango

Praise for Mickey J. Corrigan

It’s official. I am in love with Mickey J. Corrigan. Her writing style is all her own and I cannot get enough of it… There is no sugarcoating in a MJC book. Life is tough, but life is still good. ~ For the Love of Books and Alcohol

I freaking love her stories. They’re real, that’s why. Real and human and yeah, unputdownable. Mickey J. tells it like it is, no frills, no flounces, just in your face. And that writing voice? Unbe-freaking-lievable. The woman is a born storyteller. ~ Contemporary Romance Review

Author Mickey J. Corrigan spices up the same old short romance with a fun pulp fiction twist… quite possibly the best short e-book I’ve read in years. ~ Nights and Weekends

Mickey J. Corrigan has a knack for storytelling that I've not found in many other authors. I really do enjoy her style of storytelling, whether it's fifty or two hundred pages… intriguing, compelling, and unique. The characters are original, raw, flawed. ~ Read Our Lips Book Reviews

Mickey writes in such a honest and refreshing way that it’s believable. I just love to hear the truth coming from a female heroine… [and] I can’t help but smile when I think about the outrageous cast of characters she puts on display. In the midst of all the drama, there’s even a message or two to be learned. ~ Read Your Writes Book Blog

"I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful,

natural, wholesome things that money

can buy." —Steve Martin

from SUGAR DADDY’S DIARY

Three women: I broke one’s spirit, I broke another’s neck, I married the third.

Three young females. Imagine it! All such lovely creatures, ripe, luscious, bursting with their own little hopes, their sweet little dreams. So adorable. So desirable.

So pathetic.

This is their story, a true account of three beautiful but self-deluded young women. It’s an American story, a too-common tale, the dark truth about how life, big bad life, does not always turn out as a young woman expects, nor how she wishes.

For good reason: they asked for what they got out of the big bad life they chose. All three of them.

This is my manuscript, but it is their story. In the account that follows, I will share with you the events that took place over a brief period in the lives of Esme, Maire, and Niki.

Such melodious names. Such gorgeous, sexy girls; fleshy, soft and smooth, juicy as fresh peaches in a man’s warm palm. Supple girls in their prime, every man’s secret or not-so-secret fantasy.

Esme, Maire, and Niki: three bright women. Smart but not smart enough to know better. Women of little substance with fuckable bodies, plucky personalities, and laughable ambitions.

My three women: let them serve us here as contemporary archetypes, real life models of today’s American girls. Intelligent enough to attend college, to excel in a career, but not strong enough to make something of themselves.

This is the main problem with young women these days: they are spiritually, morally, and psychologically weak. Women are, in general, weak creatures. So they are nothing without men. And they know this. It’s obvious. Just take a look at the young women you know, the women who live in your city, who work in the cubicle beside yours, serve your coffee, or sit in your classroom. They’re nothing but flesh dummies, sex dolls you can blow up and fuck. And they allow this; they wait for you to do this to them. As if all they want is to be brought to life, animated in the hands of men.

Of course, they prefer to come to life in the hands of men with money. Rich men who can buy them the things they desire, powerful men who are willing to give them what they want in life in trade for their youthful, voluptuous bodies.

Look around you and you’ll see them in your city, in your own neighborhood, driving around in the elite enclave of multimillion dollar homes you pass on your way to work, on the way to the mall or the beach. Those gorgeous women you see in the airport or at the theatre, dining in expensive restaurants and shopping at high-end boutiques. Heart-stopping, built-like-a-centerfold, sexxxy mamas in bling and stiletto heels. Toting designer purses that cost more than your car. Think about it: who are these women?

Most likely they’re someone else’s property. Wives, maybe. Former or current professional girlfriends. Sugar babies. Girlfriends on demand.

Professional girlfriends are clever girls with sweet bodies. They’ll date a man for his money and status. They’ll marry him for his money and status. They’ll fuck him for his money and status.

But only if he has enough money and status.

Welcome to the sugar world. The secret world of girlfriends on demand.

SEPTEMBER, 2014

ESME: September First

Not that she wanted to make love to this man. She didn’t. Not at all. But for the first half-hour, she thought they might be able to negotiate an arrangement, and then her troubles would be over. Soon enough, however, her hopes flattened faster than the bubbles in her crystal champagne flute. He was hideous, yet here she sat, smiling sweetly, reminding herself to sit up straight, bust high and proud, displaying the obvious to the undeserving.

I like a bright gal, one who can hold her own in a social setting, ask smart questions, be witty, he said around greedy bites of bloody prime rib. But she’s gotta keep her mouth shut when it’s not time to talk. See, I like a girl who carries herself like a lady, somebody I can trust to not say something stupid when I take her along on business.

He pronounced it bidnez, like a ham actor in a grade B mob movie.

You gotta be able to make conversation with the smartest guys in the room, but not take over the room. Got that?

He smacked his lips, swallowed a chunk of meat. Glug. She had an unwanted image of his epiglottis at work. Very unpleasant. Still, he owned an international corporation, had homes in four countries, six (count ’em, six!) Ferraris, and a Gulfstream.

Esme smiled hard enough to make her dimples show. She brushed her long blonde hair from her eyes, leaned across the banquet table to allow him a deep gaze at her exceptional cleavage, and whispered, I have an undergraduate degree in computer science. I’m fixin’ to get my master’s in business law. At Duke. My father is a retired diplomat. I do think I come across as educated. And well-bred.

She drawled enough to make her invented-on-the-spot resume sound like a come on. Her date reached out a clammy hand, grasping her sun-bronzed forearm. His grip was hard, cold. When he bared his teeth in a wide grin, the mouthful of dull gray dental amalgam matched what was left of his greased back hair.

Esme let him play with her fingers. His thumb reminded her of undercooked pork sausage. She waved her free hand at their surroundings, the starched white tablecloths, the hushed waiters in stiff aprons, the four-hundred-dollar bottle of Dom Perignon Vintage 1995 in the silver ice bucket between them. She said, I like nice things, so I’m comfortable spending time with men who appreciate the finer aspects of life. Men who are educated and discriminatin’. Like yourself.

Theatre classes would have been the logical prepatory courses for something like this. Had she only known what she’d actually need in life when she actually was, albeit briefly, a college student. But she hadn’t known. How could she have predicted where life would take her?

He licked his thin blue lips. Like a mangy old lion examining a gazelle. On a plate.

She managed to keep her smile pasted on until he said, I gotta warn you, I like my girls clean shaved. No landing strips. And you gotta go for anal. I’m not gonna pay any chick a hefty stipend who doesn’t take it up the ass.

~ * ~

Esme rode the bus back to her apartment. Everyone on the local stared at her, and who could blame them? She looked ridiculous in her secondhand black leather fuck-me boots, her white Spandex dress with her braless tits showing through the thin stretch material. Even at ten o’clock at night, it was at least twenty degrees too hot for her lion tamer outfit.

She fanned her face with a thin wedge of the Coconut City Post sports section, hiding from the curious eyes of her fellow bus patrons. Funny how most men will stare at a woman who looks like a cheap whore, but look right through you when you’re pitching a business plan.

She watched out the dirty window as the bus crossed over the Intracoastal Waterway. From paradise to reality in only fifty feet of bridge span. Esme turned in her seat to look back at Coconut Island. Bright, happy lights from the glitzy hotels and the line of waterfront condos tattooed the sky. How she longed for a peek inside one of those incredible luxury apartments. Just a peek. Or a poke. And a decent guy, a wealthy but civilized man who could give that to her. And pay for the pleasure she could provide. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Esme slumped back in her hard plastic seat. She hated how obvious her life had become. And how demoralizing. She’d been listed on several professional dating websites for more than three months now, and every single date had been a bust. Broke phonies and debased octogenarians, skinflints and swingers, the list of inappropriate men she had turned away after a single meeting would fill a book. A depressing and sordid book. In fact, Esme had thought about writing one, starting with a blog. A tell-all on the secret lives of professional girlfriends. Explain what it was like to be a girlfriend on demand, the ups, the downs, the ins and outs. But blogging took up a lot of time, time you could spend making money, and she had none of either time or money to spare.

She sighed and tried to cheer herself up by staring ahead at the pretty white moon. This part of the world had some lovely skies: surrealistic blues, pastel sunsets, awesome moonrises, explosions of light and color. The clouds were like giant balls of fluff, chenille you could almost touch.

The moon pulsed, breathing more light into the lit-up night around her.

The sky over Coconut City was superb, whether it was day or night. Like a gorgeous, shallow woman with a marvelous head of hair. Because beneath the pretty surface, the place was empty. An unattractive city of liquor stores and pawnshops, big cockroaches and bigger rats, the legions of poor folks kept at arm’s length from the elite harboring themselves on Coconut Island, the ritzy enclave a few miles to the east. The distance between her life and that of the men she courted was made painful by proximity. Like with the soft white clouds, she felt as if she could just reach out and grab on. But every time she tried, she ended up with a fistful of air. Dirty, exhaust-filled, foul city air.

Esme stood up and began walking carefully toward the front of the bus. Her dress stuck to her generous ass, cleaving into the crack. Someone giggled, somebody else snorted loud enough for her to hear; but what could she do? She couldn’t reach back and pull the cloth out of her butt now, could she?

Instead, she stood facing the front doors until the bus came to a full stop. She could imagine them back there leering, sneering, disapproving, people with the city etched on their faces. Let them look, Esme didn’t care. Looking was free, but she sure wasn’t.

The bus driver, a heavy man with a thick gray beard, opened the doors with a hiss. He said, See you soon, baby.

Esme smiled at him. He had no idea what her future held. Chauffeur driven limos were what she had in mind. Not lonely bus rides. Bye, honey. Y’all take it easy tonight, she said as she edged down the battered steps, careful not to catch her three-inch heels.

The bus stop was brightly lit, and she felt safe enough during the hurried walk to her building. But the streetlamp was out in front of her apartment complex again. The area drug dealers continuously broke the bulb so they could transact under the cover of darkness. Screw everybody else.

A pair of tiny brown owls watched her from the top of a cement pole. Their tufted heads swiveled in unison. She smiled up at them before mounting the trash-strewn stairs to the front door of the plain brick apartment building. By the time she checked again, just before she let herself into the shabby lobby, the birds had flown away.

The small dank lobby smelled like cat piss and boiled cabbage. Like every other apartment building she ever lived in.

As she waited for the ancient elevator to creak its way down from the sixth floor, Esme leaned against the peeling wall. Fuck me, some graffiti advised. Boldly, without shame. She agreed. She had moved to this crummy town specifically to find a wealthy man who could help her launch a business. Before the move, she had done her research carefully: there were more rich men here, more super-rich men in Coconut County, than anywhere else in the country. Coconut County was the place for sugar daddies. And Coconut City, with its ultra-elite neighbor Coconut Island, was the place for sugar babies. For professional girlfriends on the hunt. A place where girlfriends on demand were in demand.

In so many ways, Esme Grant was a textbook sugar baby: twenty-seven years old, tall and shapely with big boobs and a beautiful face, bottle blonde and blue eyed, intelligent and ambitious. Able to speak the language of lies fluently. And saddled with bills that ate up all her income.

Economics: that’s what made a professional girlfriend tick. She was hot enough to be the woman of their dreams and smart enough to use their money to make her own dreams come true. Professional girlfriends were girls with the kind of looks that are worth something, girls with the guts to capitalize on their beauty. Sexy girls with plans, big plans, and the ruthlessness required to improve their lots. Girls who wanted a better lifestyle, modern girls with debts to pay and the strength of mind—and heart, it took heart to be a professional girlfriend—to do what it takes to make that happen.

Esme stepped forward when the elevator arrived, waiting for the doors to crawl open. She knew she had what it takes, she knew what she had was worth a lot to a guy who wanted some for himself and was too old or too busy to earn it. Wasn’t it a simple business—in this elite part of the world, in this pay-as-you-go era—to find a wealthy man eager to trade some of his extraneous income for luscious arm candy, with or without generous amounts of good clean sexual favors?

Apparently not.

The elevator doors finally completed the difficult task of opening themselves, revealing a padded cubicle the size of a coffin. It reeked of body odor and leaky digestive systems. Esme held her breath on the slowpoke ride up to her floor.

Like the elevator, her plan was moving too slowly. In fact, the rent was due and it was looking like the last month she would be able to come up with it from her dwindling cash reserves. Unless, of course, her luck changed. She needed to get lucky, fast. She needed an in, some kind of in. A foot in the door—followed by her amazing stack and her nice round ass.

Esme thought about the woman she met at the mixer in July. The self-confident redhead who said she could help. Who claimed she had some program that, the woman had promised, would ease Esme’s transition from unknown entity to professional girlfriend. She’d made it sound so easy, a simple way to improve Esme’s chances. Talking to her had made Esme feel a little better about everything.

The elevator chugged to a stop, and she waited for the doors to waffle their way open. The woman from the mixer had seemed sharp, intelligent in a down to earth way. She was clearly successful herself, boasting of a significant sugar daddy, a megabanker with some kind of estate on the Island. Proof of success: the woman had scored a mutually beneficial arrangement with a man who ran money for billionaires, and he was funding her business, her professional dating service business. Enough said.

Esme checked the hall from the elevator: all clear. At night she had to be on guard every damn minute. She wasn’t used to worrying about her safety. But Coconut City had some unsettling crime statistics.

As she hurried down the long dark hallway to her apartment, she thought about the redhead. Stupid to not call her and take her up on the offer of help. She’d saved the woman’s name and number somewhere, either on her phone or in a jacket pocket, Esme couldn’t remember. Damn it, she really needed to get organized.

She saw no one, her floor as deserted as ever. Most of the building residents arrived in December, departed in May, and spent the interim not speaking to one another. At least, this was what she had been told by the few who did talk to her. The college students she ran into down by the mailboxes warned her that Coconut City was a snobby town, even in the low-rent areas. The woman at the mixer had confirmed this, explaining how Coconut Island too was a place where you needed insider help to break in.

Obviously, Esme’s outsider status was killing her chances. And if she was going to make it, she didn’t have any more time to waste on men like Mr. Prime-rib. She needed to find a man she could make a deal with, then do it. And get paid up front.

She had to score a rich client soon. Very soon.

Entering her apartment involved unlocking a complicated series of locks. The rooms were dark and cool. She’d left the shades down, the AC on seventy-five degrees. Something she really couldn’t afford to do.

Inch by inch, she felt her way into the living area. She didn’t turn on the lights. No sense watching all the massive cockroaches scurry to their hiding places, nosing their way along the linoleum floor, the dirty sink edge, the dish-covered counter.

Sinking onto the saggy couch that came with the apartment, she wriggled out of her tight boots. Her toes were damp, blistered, and sore. After sweeping a pile of fashion magazines and unopened junk mail onto the floor, she lay on her back with her feet up. The rodents scratched about inside the thin apartment walls. Esme shivered.

She closed her eyes, relaxing. Her mind drifted to pleasant memories of Kindleton, and Jake, their life together. Jake was all the family she had, at least he would be until they started their own family.

Jake.

She kept her eyes shut tight until she saw him. Them. Lying in the long grass down by the lake. The tall pines. The sweet smell of pine needles in the fresh breeze off the water. His smooth hands, the way he held her chin in his rough paw and stared straight into her eyes.

She sighed. There had been so much feeling at one time. It had been so darn good.

Esme sat up and held her head in her hands. Had the move to Coconut City been a stupid mistake? Would she ever find a client she could tolerate long enough to get the money she and Jake needed? Was funding their business this way just a crazy fantasy?

She shook her head and reached for her cell. Time to call Jake with tonight’s disappointing news. Tell him how, once again, she failed. She wished he would say, I’ll wire you some money for the bus. C’mon home, honey. Let’s figure out another way to get the cash we need. You and me, babe. We’ll find a way to pay off these guys, get the funding in place, get our life goin’.

Of course, that wouldn’t happen. He was counting on her. He’d be cool about it, soothing, telling her again how she had to give the plan a little more time.

And she would, she’d keep at it. After all, she moved there on her own. She’d agreed to do this, and damn it if she hadn’t gone and done it! She’d taken the big old risk because, well, because she’d do anything for Jake. For them. For a future with them in it together.

Esme sighed, pressed one, and waited for her lover to answer the phone.

The background noise was so loud she could hardly hear him. Can’t talk, baby. They’re tearin’ up jake here tonight.

He never had time for her lately. So when can we talk? I’m going to bed soon. I’m beat.

Raucous drunken laughter in the background, jukebox cowboy music, some chick yelling, Barkeep, barkeep, I need you so bad.

Of course she did. All the women in Kindleton thought they needed Jake.

He held his hand over the phone while he yelled something back, so all Esme could hear was an underwater muffle. Then he laughed into the phone.

To her he said, Go to fuckin’ bed, babe. I’ll call you in the AM or somethin’.

Do you love me, Jakey?

You know I do, honey. Now get some sleep and let me do my thing.

His thing. Here she was in Coconut City, doing his thing for him, selling herself to get the funds he needed, while he laughed and partied with the horniest gals back home. Damn it!

Something sank. Maybe it was her heart.

The geographical distance between them was making her nervous. Before this professional girlfriend venture, they’d never been apart for more than a few days. So something didn’t feel right about it. In fact, when she was honest about it, everything felt wrong.

Was he doggin’ around on her? Shit. The man was a walking caveat emptor. And she was out of sight and all that.

Double shit. Now she’d never be able to fall asleep.

She sat up and stretched, padded out to the galley kitchen, a room so small she could touch either end of it while standing by the doll-sized sink. A fat brown roach ducked behind a squeeze bottle of dish detergent, settling into the darkness under a thin sponge. No way she wanted to use that sponge now.

She opened the dented fridge and looked around. A big can of Crisco. Leftover canned peaches. Might as well get to work doing what she did second best. Nothing like a home-baked pie to take her mind off her troubles.

Esme shooed the crazy ants away from the sugar bowl and preset the oven.

MAIRE: September First

Ted held Maire’s pale freckled hand